


Unstuck

by Eliza_Grace



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (yes that makes sense), Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Minor Canonical Character(s), Non-linear time travel, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Time Travel, first order of the phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza_Grace/pseuds/Eliza_Grace
Summary: Fact: Dorcas Meadowes has come unstuck in time. Fact: She neither knows how it happened nor can she control it. Opinion: It makes her a danger to the Dark Lord's plans.[Non-linear time travel that changes nothing and yet everything.]
Relationships: Dorcas Meadowes & Albus Dumbledore, Dorcas Meadowes & Dalton McKinnon (OC), Dorcas Meadowes & Emmeline Vance, Dorcas Meadowes & Fabian Prewett, Dorcas Meadowes & Narcissa Black, Dorcas Meadowes/Gideon Prewett, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net, the first of my works to be moved over here.
> 
> My Marauder Era/First OotP headcannons are extensive and as such OCs abound. The most important of these is Dalton McKinnon, elder brother to Marlene McKinnon (and as always massive thank you to Pottermommy1118 over on FF.net for letting me borrow him). Nonetheless, it should make sense even if you don't recognize all of the characters. If enough people ask, I'll put a short explanation of who they all are in the notes, if not, I'll assume it's not needed.
> 
> And for now, enjoy!

**PART I**

This is a fact: Dorcas Meadowes has come unstuck in time. This is also a fact: She neither knows how it happened nor can she control it. And this is an opinion: It makes her a danger to the Dark Lord’s plans.

*.*.*

The world lurches around her, caves and crumbles and then reassembles itself into something both familiar and strange. Hogwarts is Hogwarts and will forever remain such, but it changes with each new generation that passes through its halls and this is not the same school she attended. Still, she stands in the very same hallway where she once rushed past Narcissa Black and knocked the books out of her hands. The very same hallway that started Dalton down a heartbreaking path.

There are footsteps behind her, and she turns. Professor Dumbledore looks old, withered in a way she had never associated with him. For a moment, she catches a glimpse of a blackened hand, but then he shakes his sleeve down to cover it. “Professor,” she begins, questions burning on her tongue, but before she can say another word, the world rights itself.

Dalton looks up from his books. “You alright there, Dorrie?”

She nods, because she doesn’t know how to explain what happened, even to him.

*.*.*

Some days, she loses track of what’s real. She’ll sit staring at her hands and wonder if Professor Dumbledore will round the corner looking too old (or, perhaps, too young, she isn’t sure when it comes to that), wonder if Emmeline’s laughter lines will still be there, wonder if Sylvia will cry or smile when she sees her. The problem, she thinks, is that she doesn’t know what time is the true one or if there even is a true one in the first place. Time is a complicated thing, a volatile thing. It is also cruel.

*.*.*

When the McKinnons die, when Dalton dies, she is standing at their graves. Narcissa Black kneels in the dirt before Dalton’s grave, sobbing desperately. She looks old. The headstones look withered, aged by wind and weather. Still, she can make out the death date and it turns her stomach because it’s the same one she saw on the calendar just this morning. _It can’t be_ , she tells herself. _It can’t. Not Dalton._

“I wish it were so,” Narcissa says and she realizes she must have spoken aloud.

“I can still save them,” she insists. “It hasn’t happened yet, I can save him.”

Narcissa closes her eyes. “It has happened. He’s gone.”

“No!” A cold rage rises in her chest and she glares at Narcissa, fierce and furious. “How can you… how can you not fight? How can you accept…”

Narcissa lifts her head and looks at her. “It’s been twenty years.” There is something unbelievably broken in her eyes. It is harsh and desperate and lonely, but the worst part of it all is that it is resigned. Narcissa Black (Narcissa Malfoy, a part of her brain corrects, but to her she will always be Narcissa Black, the girl with the books, the one that broke Dalton. For the first time in her life she feels sorry for her, too.) has given up.

“Not for me,” she says, more gently now. “For me, it hasn’t happened. I can still…” The look in Narcissa’s eyes stops her.

“You can’t erase twenty years of history,” the other woman tells her. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“How do you know? How can you possibly know that?”

“It’s all happened already.” A pause. “However much I wish it hadn’t.”

*.*.*


	2. Part II

#  ** Part II **

They lose Benjy before Dalton is even buried. And there is not enough left of him _to_ bury. She rages against the world, against the death eaters, against time, because what’s the point in time travel if she can’t save her friends. When she no longer has the energy for anger, she cries against Gideon’s chest. She hates this, hates feeling helpless, hates feeling useless, hates herself and the world and time most of all. It would be easier if she were living her life the way it’s supposed to be lived.

*.*.*

Professor Dumbledore looks old again, but younger than he was in the hallway. He smiles when he sees her, enigmatic and curious and just a little sad.

“There you are, my dear,” he says, “I had been wondering where you were.”

“Sir?” she asks even as her brain races to connect the dots. She must have travelled to him before. That is, before for him. It seems to be in her future still.

He considers her for a moment. “Have you met him yet?” he asks.

“Met who?” she replies, confused.

“Save the boy, Dorcas,” Professor Dumbledore says.

“Which boy?” she leans forward almost eagerly because here is someone she can save, here is a way she can make a difference. “How…” but before she can finish the question Dumbledore begins to spin before her eyes and the world crumbles.

*.*.*

The questions turn into an obsession. Which boy is she supposed to save? And how is she supposed to save him? Is it perhaps little Neville Longbottom? Or one of Molly’s boys? Is it someone that’s already born? Or are they all boys to Dumbledore and he means Remus Lupin? She comes dangerously close to losing herself inside her own brain and if it weren’t for Gideon and Fabian, she might well have. They make her laugh, even though all of them miss Dalton and Benjy desperately, and she loves them all the more for it. Emmeline tethers on the edges of their group until Fabian pulls her close and doesn’t let go. Together, they watch. They watch Sylvia and Septima and Gerald curve around the hole that Benjy left. They watch Darren pull away from everyone in his grief. They watch Sirius lash out in his. Together, they stay standing.

*.*.*

Hogwarts does not. The world caves and crumbles and when she can see again, Hogwarts does not assemble itself. She stares because Hogwarts was not supposed to fall. It was never supposed to fall. But the heavy oak doors have been blasted off their hinges and the ancient stone walls have been reduced to rubble and she sees the bodies of children among the debris.

She spins in a circle, once, twice, but she sees no sign of life. Then, among the boulders that used to be Hogwarts’ walls, strong and mighty and built to last for thousands of years, a lone figure appears. She stops spinning and regards the person’s approach silently. Professor McGonagall has aged far more than Dumbledore ever had, her face is lined with worry, her shoulders are bent under a weight none can see, and her greying hair falls limply around her face. It is more jarring than seeing her old headmaster, not because Professor McGonagall has aged so but because she had always thought that even in age the woman would be tall and straight-backed and firm. It is her looseness that is startling more so than her age.

“What happened here?” she asks, and the professor staggers.

“Miss Meadowes,” she says, breathless and surprised, and it occurs to her that this is the first person that has ever seemed surprised to see her. She wonders how many more times she will see the others. “Dear Merlin, I had not thought… You are so young.”

She smiles half-heartedly. “Or perhaps you have aged, Professor.”

McGonagall stares for another moment. Then, she shakes herself. “It was… it was terrible, Miss Meadowes,” she tells her. “So many lost, so many children… but it is over. It is won. Take that back with you.” She pauses. “When… from when do you come?”

“October,” she replies. “October 1981.”

Professor McGonagall closes her eyes. She looks pained. “October,” she repeats. “Early still?”

She nods, wondering why the other woman seems so certain of this. “When are we?” she asks instead of contemplating the question further.

“May. 1998.”

She blinks, because she had known she travelled to places long after her time, but to know how much longer it would be… “And he’s dead? He’s truly dead?”

McGonagall nods. “This time,” she says.

“This time?” she echoes but the world swims before her eyes. It’s as if time doesn’t want her to have answers.

*.*.*

Edgar dies in a fruitless attempt to protect Selina and the kids (little Ellie and John and Claire) and Gerald and Sylvia and Septima crumble. Sylvia refuses to let go of her daughter, Susan is with her now wherever she goes, but she barely goes anywhere, Gerald hovers around them, crafting ward after ward to protect them, to protect the rest of his family (Amelia strains against Gerald’s protective instincts, but she lets him because he sleeps easier this way.) and Septima herds her remaining seven sisters close, from Primula to Nerissa, and Decimus closer still, because he’s the baby and the only boy. All the while she watches, and she wonders. What if little John was the boy she was supposed to save? What if she failed the only person she could help? To distract herself she convinces her mother to take her siblings (oh so young still at 12 and 13) away, to France or Spain or further still. It does not alleviate her guilt.

*.*.*

Professor Dumbledore sits behind his desk, younger and less burdened than she last saw him (except she saw him yesterday at an Order meeting but that’s different, that’s real, that’s in the past). He is studying something on his desk, she is not sure what, but he looks up when Fawkes trills.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she says. The surprised astonishment on his face tells her all she needs to know. “I take it this is the first time.”

“The first time?” he questions, but she can see his mind racing behind his halfmoon spectacles.

“I haven’t found the boy yet,” she tells him.

“Which boy?” the professor asks, and she sighs.

“I was hoping you knew the answer to that,” she admits quietly.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he replies. “But how is this possible?”

She sighs again, more deeply this time. “I wish I knew.”

“We shall endeavor to find out then,” he says, but she simply shakes her head.

“No, Professor. I believe…” she sighs a third time because somehow time and war have burned away her curiosity. Back in school, she would have done everything to find out how this works, what she can do with it. But the things she most wishes to do, the people she wishes to save, are beyond her grasp and all research seems pointless. “It doesn’t matter how it works, only that it does and that it can be useful.” She pauses and then says, her voice just shy of pleading, “You have to help me make use of this, Professor.”

He regards her silently for a long while but then he nods. “What do you know?”

“I am told the war ends in 1998,” she says. “In May. I also know I’m supposed to save a boy, but I don’t know who. I know we’ll meet again in your future.” The world lurches around her and she says the next sentence to an empty room, “I know I can’t change the things I wish to change most.”

*.*.*

It is so often now that she shares her last moment with someone, so often that a goodbye is final, and she learns to love more freely than she had thought herself capable of and so fiercely that it startles her sometimes. She clings to her remaining friends, tighter and tighter, as if that can make them stay, as if that will keep death from reaching for them. And when she must, she fights for them with a desperation in her heart that wants to swallow her whole and a strength born from nothingness. When she has no one to love and no one to fight, she feels empty. And she realizes that for all its love, all its strength, her heart is a fragile thing.

*.*.*

The world reassembles itself into a busy city street and it takes her a moment to recognize London. How much and how little the muggle world has changed, she thinks as she looks around. No one takes notice of her, as if she isn’t even there and yet the masses part around her like a river around a rock. She isn’t sure why she’s here, why time has brought her here, what she’s supposed to take from this. Perhaps, she is supposed to see that life goes on despite everything.

She watches a gaggle of schoolchildren following behind their teacher like ducklings and almost smiles. Part of her wishes she were that young still ( _again_ ). One of the children laughs. It’s a boy with curly blonde hair and she has to turn away because he reminds her of Dalton.

It is then that she sees the reason she was brought here. Emmeline stands only a few paces away, frozen in shock as she stares at her. She has aged, perhaps not the twenty years Narcissa spoke of but certainly fifteen, and yet she is still the same tall, strong woman she last saw a few hours ago.

Someone pushes past her roughly and she takes a step toward her closest female friend. “Emma,” she says softly, gently, because the other woman seems ready to bolt.

She doesn’t, though. Emmeline stumbles forward and falls against her and it’s all she can do to catch her friend. “Dorrie,” she whispers. “Dorcas.” There is something in her voice that she doesn’t understand for a moment. Two. Three. And then it hits her that this might not be her last moment with Emmeline, but it is Emmeline’s last moment with her.

“It’s alright,” she whispers even though she knows it’s not, she just hopes it will be one day. “I love you, Emma. I’ve got you.” She hopes she doesn’t disappear while Emmeline still needs to hold on to her.

*.*.*

She can’t quite look at Emmeline the same after that, knowing that as hard as she has tried to hold on to her, as hard as she tried to keep Emmeline from leaving her, she will be the one leaving instead. And, oh, how she wishes she could change things, but she cannot. _It’s all happened already_ , Narcissa’s voice comes back to her and it makes her want to throw things. She knows it’s pointless, the way so many things seem to be these days. Still, the sound of shattering porcelain makes her feel better.

*.*.*

“What is peace like?” she asks Professor Dumbledore when she sees him next. In the future, that is. She can’t really bring herself to talk to the other Dumbledore.

“This one is tense,” he tells her. “I do not believe Voldemort is dead.”

“He’s not,” she replies, even though she feels like she’s told him this before. Except maybe she hasn’t yet. “Not until 98.”

The professor sighs heavily. “It is so, then,” he says. “At least we shall be prepared.”

She nods and hopes it will be of use to him, this information. She hopes that it’s not all pointless. “I don’t know when he returns. Or how.”

“That’s alright, my dear,” Dumbledore smiles. “What is life without a few surprises after all?” She stares at him incredulously, but before she can question him, he asks, “What of the boy?”

She sighs. “Nothing, Professor. But do keep asking.”

“I shall,” he tells her. “Because I am quite curious about him.”

She looks away to hide her face from him, because she isn’t curious. She’s just desperate.

*.*.*

Peace, she reflects later, changes things. Maybe peace could return her curiosity to her, could make her think of knowledge as something other than a tool again and soften her wit until it is no longer so hurtful. But it could not return Dalton or Benjy, it could not bring back Emmeline’s brilliant smiles and Sylvia’s unafraid eyes, nor could it stop Gideon and Fabian from looking over their shoulders and sticking close enough to defend each other’s backs (and hers, except she knows now that one day it won’t be enough and she doesn’t know how to tell them it’s okay. She doesn’t blame them.)

*.*.*

The surroundings that assemble themselves around her are unfamiliar to her, but there is magic here, old magic. It doesn’t feel like Hogwarts, it’s not ancient, but magic has lived in this building for some time. The décor strikes her as rather over the top, dark and ornate and almost foreboding. She wonders whose house it is. She wonders who she is supposed to meet here. Then, she hears the sound of a door opening. Still, she doesn’t turn. She is almost certain she can’t die here.

“Who are you?” someone asks. A male voice, but one she doesn’t recognize.

“Who are you?” she asks back, turning around leisurely. The person in front of her is gaunt and pale, with sunken cheeks and haunted eyes. His hair doesn’t shine anymore, his wrists look boney and he stands less straight than he used to. Still, he is unmistakable.

“You’re dead,” Sirius Black tells her, disbelief clear in his voice.

“You’re the first person to say that to my face,” she replies and then, because she can see the glimmer of hope appearing in his eyes and she knows it’s pointless, “I’m not from this time.”

“Not from this time?” he echoes.

He doesn’t think as fast as he used to, either, but it’s to her advantage because she can’t change all the things he’ll want her to change, so she forges on before he can ask her to. “What happened to you?”

He laughs, but it’s a bitter thing. “Azkaban happened to me.”

“What? How?”

He shrugs. “The ministry messed up,” he says as if it doesn’t matter to him, but his shoulders are tense. “I’m a Black, after all. I must be evil.” He lifts his arms. “How could I not be, coming from this house?”

She looks around. It’s certainly not a welcoming place, but there’s something about it that she can see in him too. It’s an observation he would not welcome, so she steps closer to one of the walls and studies the tapestry covering it. “Your family?”

“By blood,” he replies. “Bloody mental, all of them.”

“What about him?” she points to a name she vaguely recognizes. Regulus Black. Sirius’ brother if she’s not mistaken.

“He was just scared.” His voice is soft, almost too soft for her to hear, and the silence that follows is tinged with sadness, but he can’t seem to let it linger, because he speaks again, louder this time, “Just as mental as the rest of them. Followed Voldemort until he got cold feet and then they made short work of him.” He shrugs, almost nonchalant. Almost but not quite.

He’s a good actor, but she has younger siblings, too, so she asks, “Did you go to his funeral?”

“There wasn’t one,” he replies, and he can’t hide from her that despite everything the death of his younger brother haunts him. “They must have made short work of the body, too.”

*.*.*

She looks for the same pain in the Sirius from her time when she sees him next, but he hides it better. Still, she imagines that she sees him flinch when someone mentions finding remnants of what was once Benjy’s body and she supposes it’s because of his brother. She wonders if other people cared about Regulus Black, who was barely eighteen when he died (and he seems oh so young to her even though she’s only four years older now than he was then), so she looks for them. And she finds them, closer to her than she would have thought and far away all the same. Darren’s little sister Mary had been meant to marry him, had been in love with the boy despite everything and it doesn’t fit into the picture she’d made of him. She wishes she could ask Mary about Regulus Black, but Mary is gone like her family is gone.

*.*.*

Hogwarts is still standing tall when the shores of the Black Lake assemble themselves around her, but it is cloaked in sadness, in fear. She looks up at the great castle in silence and wonders what happened here. When she turns, she sees something that she had never expected to see on Hogwarts’ grounds: a funeral. A little further down the shoreline a veritable sea of mourners sits while a lone figure walks down the aisle at the center; it is unmistakably Hagrid and he is carrying a body wrapped in purple cloth. The merpeople rise out of the lake to sing the most sorrowful lament she has ever heard, and she feels a wave of sadness wash over her without really knowing why.

“It is Dumbledore,” a voice says from the trees behind her and she turns to find Narcissa standing in their shadow. She looks old, but there is something defiant in her eyes as if she expects her to disapprove of her presence.

“Dumbledore,” she repeats quietly, perhaps not quite as surprised as she should be, but, she supposes, had he lived he would have told her of the end of the war himself. “When are we?” she asks, because there will be time to grieve for him later, when time takes her back to where she rightfully belongs.

“It is June now,” Narcissa replies, stepping closer. “Of 1997.”

“Only a year,” she whispers before she can stop herself and judging by the glint in Narcissa’s eyes the other woman has caught the words and understands their meaning. Still, she does not push for more. It is a kindness she can appreciate. “How did it happen?”

“There were death eaters in the castle,” Narcissa replies and as she lifts her chin, she looks defiant once more. It is a strange thing, this defiance, for she can hear the disdain in the other woman’s voice when she speaks of death eaters.

She sighs. “I suppose it was too much to ask for him to go peacefully.” She looks back to the funeral where a short man has begun to speak. “Why are you here?”

She can feel Narcissa’s eyes on her, sharp and calculating, no doubt, but she doesn’t turn. “I have come at your request, Dorcas Meadowes.”

Surprise colors her features for a moment before she nods slowly. “I see.”

“Why are you here?” the other woman asks.

“I wish I knew,” she says. “But there must be a purpose to it.” They sink into silence, the wind rustling through the leaves is the loudest sound, but in the distance the short man speaks, and many others cry. Finally, she tells her companion, “I forgive you.”

“I do not require your forgiveness,” Narcissa replies, her voice soft and distant.

“I know,” she says. “But I hated you for the pain you caused him. I thought you should know it can be forgiven.”

Narcissa takes a hissing breath and when she speaks again her voice has turned harsh and hollow. “It cannot.”

“Yes,” she replies calmly, “it can.” A pause. “I wish I knew you better, Narcissa Black,” she says. “We could have been friends.”

*.*.*

She is unstuck. Gideon and Fabian die and the world stops making sense. It’s as if someone took a pair of scissors to her already tenuous connection to reality and cut her loose. She drifts through the world, aimless and useless and helpless, and looks at everything as if through a layer of fog. She is numb to the pain of everyone around her and deaf to their words, even as a part of her that refuses to give up makes her slug through the days that follow. Still, she can no longer see the point in it.

*.*.*

Time tears her away and she wants to curse it, crush it, burn it, because how dare it take her away from their funeral, how dare it take away the last time she will see them, how dare it take away her chance to say goodbye. Then, the world assembles itself into a battlefield and she drops a man to the ground before she even has time to think. Three more are already scattered around and another follows shortly. The last stares at her for a moment and then he turns and runs. She sends another curse at his retreating back, but he is gone before it can hit him. She stays still for a moment, tense and ready to spring, waiting for another enemy to show, but none appear. Instead, someone takes a rasping breath behind her and she whirls around.

The mere sight of them almost has her dropping to her knees. She staggers and stumbles forward and then she does fall to her knees. Fabian lies motionless, the grey sky reflecting in his empty eyes, but Gideon is still bleeding sluggishly from a wound in his stomach and when she lets out a single sob that tears at her throat harshly, he turns from the sight of his brother’s lifeless body.

“Dorrie,” his voice is nothing more than a broken whisper but to her it seems impossibly loud. For a moment, she is frozen. Then, she scrambles to his side, and presses both hands to the wound on his stomach to try and stem the bleeding. It’s all she knows to do, and she wishes she knew more of healing (wishes for Dalton because he could have saved him, but Dalton is gone, he can’t help her now).

“Please,” she croaks around the lump in her throat. “Please, no.” He lifts a hand with the greatest of efforts and his fingers brush against her cheek. She almost chokes on her own sob. “Gid. Giddy.” She squeezes her eyes shut against the tears, but they flow down her cheeks either way and so she opens them again because to look away from him is unbearable.

His lips form a single word soundlessly. Her name, she realizes after a moment. Her name, over and over.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers through the tears. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” Her hands shake even pressing firmly against his wound as they are. They’re covered in blood already. “I love you. I love you. Please, I don’t know how… I need you, please, I…”

“I love you,” he replies in a voice strained with effort. “You…” his voice fails him, but she thinks she can see in his eyes what he means to tell her. Another sob shakes her.

“Gid,” she whispers.

“Angel,” he breathes, and she can feel herself crumble.

“Please,” she chokes out. “Please, no. Don’t leave me. Don’t…” the sobs swallow the rest of her words.

“I love you,” Gideon murmurs and then, almost too fast for her to process, his hand slips from her cheek and the light leaves his eyes. For a moment, there is silence. The world seems to stop breathing as he does, still and silent. Her mouth opens in an equally silent scream. Then, she bends over, caves and crumbles and lets out a single broken sob.

“Gideon,” she whispers into his chest, the same chest she had cried into when Dalton died. But there is no heartbeat to be heard anymore, no steady, reassuring rhythm of life. His lifeless body shakes with the force of her sobs as she pulls him half into her lap and cradles his head in her arms, but other than that he is completely, unnaturally still.

She isn’t sure how long she stays like that, but eventually she straightens enough to look at his face and brush his hair out of his eyes. Her fingers leave a trail of blood where they touch his skin and even though the sight of blood never bothered her before, her stomach turns. A tear falls onto the rapidly drying blood and it begins to smear. Her attempts to wipe it away only make it worse.

“I love you,” she says softly, her voice still cracking but steadier than it has been for days. Then, she turns slightly and reaches for Fabian’s hand. “They’re done taking away the people I love,” she tells their dead bodies and hopes that somewhere they can hear her. “They’re done. I won’t let them take anyone else.” She lifts her head, turns her tear-stained face to the sky and feels a steely resolve harden her spine. She will bring him down. Bring all of them down. And she doesn’t care how.

*.*.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> The final part will be up either later today or tomorrow.


	3. Part III

#  **Part III**

She takes to swimming after that, slowly relearning things she hasn’t needed since she was a child. She spends hours upon hours in a public swimming pool somewhere in Edinburgh and lets the smooth, rhythmic motions chase her thoughts away. And when that isn’t enough, she dives. Sitting on the floor of the pool with her ears crackling from the pressure and her lungs burning with the need for air is strangely calming. Some days she wishes she could just stay there, at the bottom of a pool, where no one expects anything from her and where all her losses are a step removed. But she must inevitably come up for air and with each gasping breath that fills her lungs allow her pain to fill her again.

*.*.*

Professor Dumbledore stands at the window of his office, looking out over the grounds. Fawkes sits on his perch beside the desk. He doesn’t trill when she appears. Instead, the bird regards her calmly as she composes herself. She takes a step closer to the desk. “Good evening, Professor,” she says.

He turns from the window. “Good evening,” he says and while his smile is kindly it is also edged in worry.

“Are you alright, sir?” she asks, taking another step closer and holding out a hand to Fawkes. The phoenix rubs his head against it.

“Quite alright, my dear,” he replies, walking over to his chair. She follows him with her eyes but remains where she is. There is comfort in Fawkes’ touch, and she is loath to give it up. The professor sits and folds the paper that had been sitting on his desk. He puts it aside. “Do you have news for me?”

“I haven’t found the…” she trails off, looking at the paper’s frontpage. He is a frightful sight, the way he raves and rages at something unseen and, for a moment, she understands why he ended up in Azkaban even if she still doesn’t know the particulars of that. “He’s innocent,” she tells him.

“Who is?” Dumbledore leans forward.

“Sirius Black,” she replies, sure of this even though it wasn’t said in so many words when she saw him. “I’ve seen him. Or I will. We’ve spoken. Whatever the reason he was sent to Azkaban, he is innocent.”

“He betrayed Lily and James,” the professor replies wearily. “They are dead because of him.”

She frowns at him. “He wouldn’t. He loves his brothers.” Fawkes trills at her, it sounds like approval and comfort at the same time. She smiles. It’s a tired, broken thing. Then, the world crumbles.

*.*.*

She almost loses her wand. She also almost loses her life. She does lose her sanctuary. The death eaters bring down the roof of the swimming pool around her one lazy Thursday morning and her escape is a narrow thing. She reprimands herself for her own foolishness later, because she should not have considered the pool safe, should have never thought herself protected behind its walls but she had. With a sigh, she submerges herself in her bathtub. It does not bring her the same comfort as the pool did, but it will have to be enough. 

*.*.*

The water before her is the least comforting thing she has ever seen but whether that’s because of the dim, green light that makes everything look sickly or the vaguely humanoid shapes she can see in its depths she isn’t entirely sure. She shivers and frowns at the undisturbed surface as she wonders what kind of place this is, where the darkness is deeper than it should be and all warmth seems like a distant memory.

Then, someone speaks behind her, it’s a male voice, harsh with pain and wrought with desperation, and it cuts her to the bone. “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead…” he moans, and she freezes, wondering who he is begging, wondering who else is here. She breathes in as quietly as she can and takes a moment to center herself. She only has to hold out until time takes her back. She can manage that much, she tells herself as she draws her wand carefully.

Another voice speaks, it is softer and higher than the first and she cannot understand the words.

The first person’s scream is a terrifying thing, but it is quickly swallowed up by the darkness. “Please, please, please, no… not that, not that, I’ll do anything.” For a moment, she allows herself to close her eyes even though she knows that she is likely in hostile territory. Then, she opens them again and begins to turn around slowly, hoping against hope that she has not yet been discovered.

The scene that unfolds before her eyes is not one she was expecting. A man lays writhing on the ground, his dark hair disheveled as he lashes out at nothing. Beside him stands a raised basin from which the sickly light seems to be emanating and beside that cowers a tiny figure. A house elf, she realizes upon closer inspection, but one more pitiable than any she had ever encountered at the Prewetts’ ancestral home. She tries to see the third person, the one she had cast as the cruel torturer in her mind (the one she had supposed to be Voldemort), but there is no one there. And not because she cannot see them, for she can tell now that the rocky outcrop she is standing on is no more than an island and a small one at that, but because there really is no one there. The man’s torturer is an invisible one.

She watches, silent and unnoticed, as the elf coaxes the man to drink more of the green liquid from the basin. His resistance turns violent, but there seems to be an unknown strength in the elf’s spindly limbs for he stands against the assault easily and yet… and yet there is pain in his features. He is not unmoved by the man’s pleas, is in fact far from it. She wonders why he keeps going. She also wonders why she has been brought to watch this.

Then, the man screams once more, raises himself off the floor with what seems to be tremendous effort and collapses with an air of finality that has her swallowing harshly.

“Master!” the elf wails. “Master!” He shakes the man who seems younger now than he did, but the man remains still. The elf reaches into the basin and pulls out something she cannot see, he stows it away in his tattered pillowcase and drops something else into the basin. Their purpose seems accomplished and yet the elf does not leave and time does not tear her away. Instead, time seems to slow to a crawl as they both stay standing still, lost and purposeless. The silence is almost deafening.

“Water,” the man croaks out. She is more startled than she likes to admit. So, seemingly, is the elf, because neither of them moves while the man crawls over to the island’s edge. His hand reaches for the water. His touch sends ripples across its formerly still surface. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the lake erupts.

A thin, white hand grasps the man’s wrist, another reaches for his ankle, a third clutches at his robe and then there are too many for her to see all as bodies rise out of the water to drag the man down with them. The house elf hides his face behind his hands, weeping and wailing, but he does not move. “Master Regulus!” he cries. “Master Regulus!” The man struggles weakly against his attackers, but he cannot escape their grasping hands.

A part of her wants to turn away, but another refuses to let him breathe his last without someone there to at least witness his final stand. He looks young now, oh so young, not like a man. In truth, he is barely more than a boy.

A boy.

_Save the boy, Dorcas._

*.*.*

There is a grim satisfaction, a fierce and unbowed joy in knowing she has saved this boy, has saved Regulus Black. And there is a heart wrenching fear, an almost paralyzing terror in the word he’d whispered to her just before time had torn her away. _Horcruxes_. It shouldn’t scare her so, because in all honesty she has no idea what a Horcrux is, but a shiver had run down her spine when he’d said the word and she has learned to trust her instincts over the years. They have yet to lead her wrong. Of course, she suspects that they will lead her to her death eventually (soon, if she’s quite honest, but she’s not), but for now they are what’s keeping her alive. She doesn’t quite know how, but she seems to be attracting Death Eaters wherever she goes these days. More often than not, she only makes it out alive by the skin of her teeth. And when Darren patches her up in stoic silence, she can see in his eyes the question he won’t ask. _Why?_ And she just lifts her head and looks ahead, because she knows why. But it’s not going to stop her.

*.*.*

When the headmaster’s office assembles itself around her, she is still wiping the blood from her cheek where a cutting curse had grazed her in the latest skirmish. She considers her stained fingers for a moment before she looks to Dumbledore. He is seated behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him as he regards a tiny, battered book with unusual solemnity.

“Professor?” she says softly, wiping at her cheek again.

He does not look up. “Hello, my dear,” he replies absently, his gaze still fixed on the book.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, she says, her voice slow and soft and hesitant which is rather unlike her, but she cannot help but admit that she fears his response, “Professor… sir… what… what is a Horcrux?”

His head snaps up, his regard of her just as solemn and just as intent as his regard of the book on his desk had been. “How did you come by that word?”

“A dead man,” she tells him because to the rest of the world Regulus Black is just that. “What is it?”

“A vile thing,” he says gravely. “A means to something close to immortality, but as is the way with such things at great cost.”

“Great cost?” she asks, reaching up to stop the flow of blood down her cheek.

“My dear, whatever happened to you?”

She shrugs. “Nothing of consequence, really.” And because the look in his eyes has changed to something less solemn and less intent, something sad and helpless, she adds, “It’s not quite my time yet, I don’t think.”

“I shall take your word for it,” the professor replies, but his voice is laden with sorrow.

“Great cost?” she prompts him again.

“A Horcrux is created by an act of the greatest evil,” he tells her. “The murder of an innocent.”

She closes her eyes and swallows harshly. “Professor,” she says, and it speaks to her growing awareness of what is happening to her that she knows time will take her away shortly. “Professor, the man, the dead man, he did not say Horcrux. He said Horcruxes.”

*.*.*

Despite what she told Dumbledore, she makes an effort to see her loved ones when she returns to her own time. She goes to the Bones residence and is unsurprised to find Septima with her sister and brother-in-law. She hugs her close, extracts a promise from Gerald to protect them even though she knows he will do so regardless of her words and kisses both Sylvia and little Susan on the forehead. Next, she goes to see Gideon’s and Fabian’s parents, and their mother Elaine looks at her sadly and returns her too tight embrace without a word. Darren’s eyes still ask her why and she still remains silent, because they’ve forgotten how to speak to each other, but she kisses his cheek and hopes her own eyes tell him that she loves him. Molly bustles about and makes her tea and presses her to eat and she allows it because fussing is how Molly shows her love and letting her is her reply. If they both cry into their tea when Molly presses Gideon’s watch into her hand, neither of them speaks of it. She writes a letter to her family _, dear Mum and Dad, dear Don, dear Nicky_. She even reaches out to her father, but he makes no reply. And finally, finally, she goes to see Emmeline. It is no surprise to her that her closest living friend sees straight through what she is doing. What does surprise her is that Emma makes no attempt to stop her. Instead, she gathers her up in her arms and they cry together in silence.

*.*.*

The street is vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t say why. It is no extraordinary place, the little houses all look the same, with immaculate lawns and tidy flowerbeds out front; there must be many streets just like this in towns just like this one, but she has learned not to question why time brings her to certain places. Time always has a purpose.

When the door to one of the houses opens and a familiar figure steps out, she considers herself proven correct. “Benjy!” she calls out, smiling widely.

He turns, regards her for a moment, and then walks over. “Dorcas, correct?” he says with a faintly puzzled smile and she realizes with a start that this is a version of Benjy that doesn’t truly know her. And now that she looks at him more closely she can see that he is younger than he was when she last saw him by perhaps three or four years. If he doesn’t know her yet, she must only just have graduated and joined the order. Four years then.

She shakes herself from her thoughts and hopes her smile doesn’t seem forced to him. “Yes. I… ah… I must have gotten lost. Is there a swimming pool near here?”

He chuckles. “There is,” he replies, and she does her best to hide her relief that this town does indeed have a swimming pool.

“Could you just point me in the right direction?” she asks, but when he begins to give her directions she barely listens. “Thank you. I’ll just be on my way then.” She pauses and swallows around the lump in her throat. “Good bye, Benjy.”

She blinks back her tears just long enough to hear his own farewell. The casual “See you!” seems a mockery of the fact that she will in fact not, but she knows he doesn’t mean for it to be, he cannot because he doesn’t know. So she just smiles and nods and hurries off the way he’d indicated.

She makes it around the corner before her legs won’t carry her any longer and she leans against a fence and tries to get control of her shaking limbs. Time always has a purpose, she thinks, but if its purpose has become to allow her goodbyes then death must be just around the corner.

*.*.*

Death is just outside her door. The only thing keeping it out are her wards. They are strong. How could they not be if Gringotts’ most talented human warder in centuries raised them? But she can feel the vicious power assaulting her protections and she knows not even Gerald’s wards can stand up to Voldemort.

*.*.*

“Hello Professor,” she says as she moves to stand beside him. For once, they are not in his office but standing at the edges of the Great Lake. Somewhere to their left, he will be entombed. She doesn’t dare look that way. Instead, she looks ahead.

“Good morning, my dear,” he replies. “What brings you here?”

She sighs. “Goodbye, I think,” she admits.

“Is that so,” he says slowly. “But perhaps we shall have a little longer, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” she agrees, even if she doesn’t believe it.

“What of the boy?” Dumbledore asks.

She smiles. “I found him,” she says, true happiness suffusing her voice. “I saved him.” She pauses, “Just like you said I should.”

“Did I now?”

She chuckles, “A paradox.”

“Dangerous things,” the professor cautions.

“Maybe,” she allows. “But it is done. It’s all happened already, Professor.”

“A rather fatalistic view,” he says.

She laughs. “I like to think it is merely realistic. It’s definitely proven itself to be true, in my experience.”

“And you, my dear, have rather more experience than most.” She can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, and she is glad for it because he has seemed so serious lately. “Who was it?”

“The boy?” she looks at the lake for a long moment. It is still and silent, not even the squid makes an appearance. “I don’t think I should say.”

“Are you certain? I was quite curious,” he sounds both amused and faintly dismayed.

“I am,” she replies. “You should still ask after him. I don’t think this is the last time you will see me.”

“But you believe it is the last time you will see me.” She can feel him looking at her and after a moment, she turns her head to look back at him.

“Voldemort is at my door, Professor,” she replies, softly. “This is goodbye.”

He closes his eyes and pain flickers across his face before he opens them again and smiles at her. “Farewell, Dorcas Meadowes. You have been invaluable to me.”

Her own smile is a little tremulous, but at least it is a smile. “Goodbye, Professor.”

*.*.*

The wards tremble under the continued assault. There are few people who can bring a ward down by force, she knows. She also knows that one of those people is attacking hers. Another shudder goes through her defenses. She looks at the door. She has barricaded it with most of her furniture, but she knows if the wards fall it will be futile. Another shudder. She takes a deep breath. Her hand tightens on her wand. Then, the wards fall, fizzling out of existence as if they never were. She wishes she could be surprised.

*.*.*

The graves look much younger this time. So does Narcissa, who approaches the headstones with gerbera daisies clasped in her hands. She watches her silently, takes in her shaking shoulders, her hitching breaths, her unsteady steps. The blonde woman places the flowers on Dalton’s grave and stays there.

“He would have liked those,” she says softly, gently.

Narcissa turns so quickly that she almost falls and she reaches out a hand to steady her. When the other woman takes in just who has joined her at the headstones, her eyes widen. She has never looked so young. “What? How?” she asks without all of her usual poise.

“It’s complicated,” she tells her. “In short, I’m from the past.” _And in a way the future,_ she thinks, but she doesn’t say that.

“Can you?” Narcissa’s eyes flit to the headstones, to Dalton’s name and it’s so easy to understand what she is asking. Can you save him?

She shakes her head sadly. “I wish. Really, I do. But it’s all happened already.” She pauses. Another paradox. She wonders how many more she has created. Certainly, there is one more loop she must close, but that has time until Narcissa doesn’t look quite so distraught. “There is…” she says haltingly, “one life I was able to save.” She stops, gathering her thoughts, wondering how to go about this best.

“Whose life?” The other woman’s blue eyes are swimming in tears, but there is an edge to her gaze, a sharpness that not even tears can soften.

She looks at the headstones. “I told him to go. As far as he could. I told him to go and let everyone believe him dead.” She smiles faintly. “I’m almost certain he disregarded my words and told Mary. It would explain where she went.”

Narcissa gasps beside her. “He…”

She turns to her and presses a finger to her lips. “If there ever is a funeral on Hogwarts’ grounds, come find me there,” she tells her, changing the topic inelegantly but effectively. “I should be glad for some company.”

“A funeral?” her companion echoes. “Whose? Why at Hogwarts? When?”

“If,” she replies with a smile. “Goodbye, Narcissa Black.”

*.*.*

She is vicious and reckless and made of rage and spellfire. Her wand is a blur of movement, her feet step sure and graceful, her body twists and dodges with barely a thought. But power… power is on the side of her opponent. He does not bother with things as tedious as dodging when he can just let her spells splash against his shield as if they were no more than gentle waves lapping at the shore. His wand flicks almost lazily to cast another vicious curse at her unprotected side and she just barely twists out of the way. His lazy, careless manner is meant to be an insult, she is almost certain, but he is here himself which belies her importance well enough. And besides, she doesn’t have the time to be insulted. Another bolt of light leaves his wand and speeds her way.

*.*.*

The Hogwarts hallway that assembles itself around her is empty and she is glad for it because it gives her a moment to compose herself before she figures out why she is here. She starts to walk down the hallway in what she tells herself is a random direction (it’s not, but she’s not that honest with herself), her wand in hand and trying to remember which way to dodge when she returns (or will the spell have hit her already? She’s never quite sure how long she is gone for when she goes to another time.).

Just before she turns a corner, she hears someone say, “Professor.” There is a questioning lilt to the voice, a hint of surprise, and it is strangely familiar to her even though she cannot quite put her finger on why that is so. When she steps into the hallway, it is empty save for Professor Dumbledore, who has his back to her. The certainly feminine speaker is gone.

She frowns and looks around. There is no where to go, the next intersection is a good bit further away and she doesn’t think there are any secret passages in this section of the castle. The only portrait large enough to hide one is that of Mirabella Plunket and she knows very well that there is nothing behind that one. She smiles, but something about that thought has her pause.

Mirabella Plunket’s portrait.

She takes another look at the hallway and is surprised that she did not recognize it sooner. It is the very same hallway where she once knocked Narcissa Black’s books out of her hands. The hallway that started Dalton’s heartbreak. The hallway where she once encountered Professor Dumbledore for the briefest of moments. And then she knows why the voice was so familiar to her. She knows why the person it belonged to is gone. It was her. She had almost encountered herself. And her younger self has returned to a time where Dalton is still alive. The lump in her throat is sudden, but not unexpected and she has learned to ignore it and carry on speaking over the last few months, so she says, her voice soft and tired and not at all questioning, “Professor.”

The headmaster turns. “Good morning, my dear,” he replies with a smile. “I must say this is an extraordinary one.”

She chuckles. “That was the first time she saw you,” she tells him.

“Indeed?” he takes a brief look at the hallway behind him where the other version of her had stood. “Well, then I am sorry, I could not provide her with any answers.”

“It’s alright,” she replies. “I managed.”

“That you did, dear, that you did.” He looks at her closely. “Are you in battle?” he asks lifting a hand to indicate the wand in her own.

She nods, but her attention is on the blackened fingertips his movement exposed. “What happened to your hand, sir?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore replies, smiling benignly as he shakes his sleeve down to cover the appendage. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, dear.” She fixes him with a stare until he relents, “Not for a while yet, at least.”

“It’s different for me, Professor,” she reminds him. “How long is your while?”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment, but eventually he says, “A year. Perhaps more.”

She nods, but then she remembers Narcissa’s words. He will not die of whatever lingering curse has befallen his hand. Narcissa had spoken of death eaters and the implication had been clear: murder. “Do you remember what the dead man told me?” she asks him quietly.

“I do,” he replies, his face grave.

“You must share it. You must make sure someone else knows. The knowledge cannot be lost,” she looks at him, earnest and imploring, and hopes he agrees.

They sink into silence once again and when he finally does speak, he does not reply to her words. Instead, he asks, “What of the boy?”

She hesitates. Then, she shakes her head. She isn’t sure whether he has noticed her hesitation or not, but if he has, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he offers her his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the castle? There’s no one around who might ask questions.”

Before she can reply, he swims before her eyes and time takes her away.

*.*.*

There is a smoking crater in the heavy desk behind her and it speaks to what her fate would have been had the spell hit her instead of her furnishings. That she remains in one piece, she attributes to luck more than anything because she cannot fathom how she managed to dodge in time. She spins and unleashes a series of cutting curses on her opponent before she has to duck out of the way of another barrage of spells. This time, she is not quite successful. The gash on her leg is nasty and it bleeds something fierce but most of all it slows her down and she knows she won’t be long for this world.

*.*.*

The sight of them, tall and strong and so gloriously alive, takes her breath away. They’re sitting at the kitchen table of a large house that at one point was the order’s headquarters. She is still not sure who it belongs to, but she’s convinced she isn’t supposed to know in the first place and right now she also really doesn’t care as she leans on the kitchen counter and drinks in the sight of them.

They aren’t looking her way and so she allows herself to watch them openly. Fabian is laughing, and his laugh is a loud, full-bodied thing that she has always liked but now she thinks that she had never appreciated it as she should have while it was still a regular occurrence in her life. Gideon’s satisfied grin leads her to believe that the source of his brother’s laughter lies in something he said, because he’d always liked making people in general and Fabian in particular laugh, especially on days where everything seemed pointless. She smiles softly, and perhaps a little sadly, because they are as they should be, alive and well and laughing, and it hurts her as much as it gives her joy.

“Peaches!” Fabian exclaims suddenly. It startles her, because she hadn’t expected to be noticed. “When did you get here?”

She opens her mouth but for once the lump in her throat is too large to speak around, so she just shrugs vaguely.

Gideon has turned to her as well and his grin softens into a smile as he looks at her. “Very precise,” he chuckles.

She tries for an unrepentant grin but isn’t sure if she succeeds.

Fabian laughs. “Did you lose your voice, Dorrie?”

She rolls her eyes. “My voice is fine,” she replies, but it’s obviously not true because the words come out brittle and shaky.

“Are you alright?” Gideon gets up and walks over to face her across the counter. His eyes are gentle but the way he hesitates before reaching out to her lets her know that this is before.

She smiles and nods as she touches the back of his hand. “Yes,” she says, because she is, even though she can feel the blood running down her leg. How could she not be? They’re alive and together and her voice might be failing her, but she has heard Fabian laugh again and Gideon smiles at her and that’s enough. That’s all she ever needed. Still, she wishes she could lean across the counter and kiss him, but she can’t do that to him, and she can’t do that to the younger version of herself.

“What happened to your cheek?” he asks, brushing his thumb over the thin scar.

“Nothing of consequence,” she tells him quietly. “It’ll go away.” And then she leans back slightly and looks around for Fabian who has made himself scarce as he tends to do when she and Gideon start getting into each other’s space. “Well, Fabulous?”

He grins at her as he walks over, hops onto the countertop and throws an arm around her shoulders. “Your faithful sidekick is at your command, oh greatest of all heroes,” he proclaims and when Gideon begins to laugh, he allows himself a satisfied smirk. She smiles at how very alike they are in some ways.

But then she feels time begin to tear at her and she hates it because if she could, she would stay in this moment forever. She presses herself close to Fabian’s side and takes a hold of Gideon’s hand. “I’m going to disappear,” she warns them quietly. “But I’ll be fine. I’ll see you soon.” She squeezes Gideon’s hand and feels Fabian’s arm tighten around her. And even though she knows it will only make them worry more, she adds, “I love you.”

*.*.*

She’s too slow. And she knows she’s too slow. She can’t keep up with the rapid spellfire any longer, cannot twist and duck and dodge fast enough and it’s been a while since she cast anything but a shield charm. She doesn’t give up, she refuses to give up, because they would have wanted her to live. But there is no strength in her movements, only desperation and a determination to hold on a little longer. She falls to the ground.

*.*.*

“Dorrie?”

Her body is heavy with exhaustion, but she hasn’t heard this voice in so long, hasn’t seen him in so long that she manages to lift her head anyways. He looks surprised and confused and… young. More than anything, he looks young. “Hey Dal,” she says tiredly.

He slides off the bed and sinks to the ground beside her, one hand fluttering over her uncertainly while the other reaches for the wand on the bedside table. She blinks up at him confusedly (and oh, how the blood loss has slowed her brain). “Dorrie, what’s going on? What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles. “Nothing yet. Take a few years.”

He frowns at her and then begins to treat the wound on her leg. “Dorrie,” he says seriously, and she smiles because she knows exactly what he means by that. _Stop wasting time. Stop avoiding the question. Talk to me._

“How old are you?” she asks quietly.

“Seventeen,” he replies, slightly distracted by his focus on her wound and if he’s only seventeen she gets it. Healing always came easily to him and he’d known a lot even before they finished school, but healer’s training had made him quicker and more efficient. Still, he’s apparently not distracted enough to miss the implications of her question, because after a small pause he looks at her and asks, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three next month,” she tells him honestly, because there’s no point in lying to him. He can read her like no one else.

“Twenty-three,” he repeats. “But… time travel?”

“Hmmm…” she agrees. And then, “I’m sorry it’ll take me so long to stop hating her. I know you…” she trails off.

Dalton smiles half-heartedly. “I don’t think you ever truly hated her, you know. You don’t hate people, Dorcas.”

“Maybe,” she replies. “I’ll miss you, Dal.”

“You’re not going to die from this.” His protest is quick and firm, but his voice remains gentle and that’s such a Dalton thing that she can’t help but smile.

She doesn’t reply to that, she just takes his hand and holds it tightly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dorrie,” he says. “But there’s no need for goodbyes.”

She smiles, but she can feel fire licking at her toes, and she knows it won’t be long now. “Just in case,” she replies and sits up just enough to kiss his cheek.

Then, fiendfire erupts around her and she is back in her living room. She can feel it burn, can see her limbs blacken and smell the stench of burning flesh. It’s a cruel way to kill, but she smiles at Voldemort. “You’re only mortal,” she says. “You will die.”

*.*.*

This is a fact: Dorcas Meadowes is killed by the Dark Lord. This is also a fact: She dies surrounded by fire. This is an opinion: She dies on her own terms.

And this is the final fact of her life: She has played her part in bringing Lord Voldemort down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who made it to the end: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Part II (a rather longer part) will follow shortly.


End file.
